


I'll wed you in the golden summertime

by wolfwithwoodenteeth



Series: Oaths and Promises [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Jon has fathered a bastard, Mild Smut, Post-Canon, he believes Sansa has died in childbirth, jonsa baby, so he doesn't return home after the war for the dawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-03-30 09:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13948806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfwithwoodenteeth/pseuds/wolfwithwoodenteeth
Summary: Written for Day 20 of 31 Days of Jonsa - One thinking the other is dead***The Spider has arranged a messenger to deliver the news of Sansa's death to Jon, hoping to convince him to join Daenerys in her quest for the Iron Throne, believing he's the only one who can tame her more violent impulses.Sansa is alive and well in Winterfell, still waiting for Jon to come home and meet his son.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Queenofthebees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenofthebees/gifts).



> Remember when you commented on one of my fics, the one where Ghost is Sansa's accomplice and he lures Jon to her room, where she is very naked and trying to seduce him, and you said Sansa probably got pregnant that night? Well, consider this one a continuation of that verse. I hope you'll like it! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, this first chapter is filled with angst, but I guess you already got that from the tags. I promise it will get better in chapter 2!
> 
> Jon becomes very ill in his last POV in this chapter. Don't worry, he'll be okay, but that part is kind of gross... Did anyone need a warning for that? Better be safe, I guess...

The Night King has been defeated, all the dragons are gone, but so are Arya and Tormund and Davos. Still, Jon is eager to finally return home. His body is weary, but still strong, yet the only thing that truly keeps him alive and makes him put one foot in front of the other again and again, as they march south, is the thought of seeing her again. He knows she'll have the power to bring him back, just like she did when he had truly died.

They're already deep into the New Gift, when there's a rider in the night. The lad can't look him in the eyes when he tells him the news. She's died bringing his child into this world, a son she's named Robb.

He'd once sworn to never father a bastard, but it has turned out be yet another broken vow. He promised to wed her when the Long Night was over and Summer had returned, so they were careful, but apparently not careful enough. It must have happened that first night, when Ghost led him to her chambers. 

He rebuffs all requests to build a new life in the South, and ignores the Northerners' pleas to take up his rightful place as their King again. A weak voice in the back of his mind tells him he should go home to see his son, but he isn't fit to be a father to any child, nor a King to any realm, and Winterfell won't truly be his home without her.

As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he accepted the responsibility of saving the world because it was his duty. It was only later, when he'd been murdered and brought back and she'd come back into his life, that he found his true reason for taking such a burden upon his shoulders. It was his family and his home he was fighting for, they were the reason he kept going and succeeded in the end, but it has all been for naught.

Perhaps it would be possible to recover from the things he's been through, to keep going after everything he's seen, but not anymore, not after he's lost his last connection to life. He's been reduced to a shell of himself, and yet his body doesn't seem to want to die. So he'll live, spending the rest of his days beyond the Wall, until darkness will finally take him again.

***

 _Until I return, the North is yours._ Sansa often spends her afternoons on the ramparts, hearing his voice repeat those words over and over, as she stands waiting for him to appear on the horizon. And she remembers his promise.  _I'll come back to you, and I'll wed you in the godswood, with the summer sun kissing your hair._

The war has been over for moons. She knows he burned Arya's body the day the Night King was defeated. She knows Daenerys is mourning her children, even as she is on her way South to take the Iron Throne from Cersei. She knows the names and faces of many others who will never return. Yet no one's able to tell her what has happened to Jon. It would seem that one day he simply disappeared, and no one's able to tell her how or why.

Winter still reigns and they all struggle, and it is her the North has turned to to lead them through it all. It is an impossible task, but it is his faith in her that keeps her going.  _I'm leaving them in good hands._

At night the memory of him haunts her, comfort and anguish all wrapped up into one. She misses how his tired face would light up and the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners when he smiled. She remembers him sighing her name, his touch, his lips on her skin. On other nights she wakes up drenched in sweat, terrified she's forgotten the exact colour of his eyes, or the pitch of his voice, that hint underneath the scent of pine and leather that always clung to him, which was entirely Jon.

 _It doesn't matter_ , she tells herself. He'll come back and she'll be able to learn them all over again.  _He promised._ So every day she climbs the ramparts again to wait, she goes to the Godswood to pray that Robb will be able to meet his father, until he'll return to her.

***

He needs to keep moving. He hardly pays any attention to where his feet are carrying him, couldn't tell how long he's been walking if his life depended on it. All is fine, as long as he keeps moving, keeps going north, only north. Time passes so oddly. At times he'll think he's only been on the move for about an hour and he'll start wondering whether something is wrong with his eyes, only to realize it's already dark. Or he'll swear he's been walking for hours and he'll look up to see that the sun has hardly risen from where it first peeked from behind the horizon.

He's horrified by the possibility of forgetting the sound of her voice, the warmth in her eyes or the scent of her hair, but at the same time thinking of her is still too painful. At first he expected his grief to drown him or burn through him like a festering wound, but in truth it feels as if he's been swallowed by some great beast, trapped inside its icy belly, cut off from the world, peering at it through a warping tunnel or a blurred window. 

The numbness is nauseating, grating on his nerves at all times, twisting his insides. How he wishes he could feel something, anything. But it's safe, it's familiar. Caged deep inside of him, hidden away so throughly he's almost able to forget it's there, is a swirling ball of liquid fire, and he's terrified of what might happen if he sets it free, as if it's a poison that might slip into every fibre of his being.

He's stopped wandering now, settling down in an abandoned village. He believes it might be Whitetree. It's only a collection of hovels and a monstrous weirwood tree, just like he remembers being there, but he can't bring himself to truly look at it, and it doesn't matter anyway. 

He spends most of his time warged inside of Ghost. Sharing his mind is easier, all he has to worry about is hunt, kill, eat, sleep. Ghost's senses are sharper, his world much more simple, but at the same time richer, making it easier for him to believe it's more real than his own life, that he can stay there forever.

Whenever he wakes up inside his own body, the reality of it all comes crashing down on him and he forces himself to slip back into the direwolf's mind.

***

She's up before dawn every single day and by the time her head hits her pillow, the sun has disappeared behind the horizon for hours. She's always dreamed of running her own keep, but it's so hard, so demanding, especially during Winter. Northerners are hardy and sensible people, and they realize they all need to work together to get through it, which alleviates her burden at least a little.

Maester Alderman assists her with the ledgers and letters, and informs her where her knowledge is lacking. Sometimes she wishes Jon's friend Sam had stayed in Winterfell, that she hadn't granted him and his wife Gilly a small keep on former Bolton lands. She liked having them around. Sam is smart and has always been kind to her and Gilly gave her courage, making her laugh and offering refreshing insights.

Bran is still around and he supports her. He'll offer her advice or sit beside her in the Great Hall to endorse her decisions when she asks him to, but he still spends so much of his time under the Heart Tree. He often talks about leaving and it makes her angry.

"I'm not the same as I was before, Sansa," he tells her.

"None of us are, Bran!" she snaps at him. "But at least we're trying! Come back to the keep and live a little, your visions never show you anything useful anyway!"

After all, the only thing she desires for them to show Bran is that Jon is still alive, and that he'll return to her and to their son.

Robb is her greatest joy and her deepest anguish. She remembers Cersei telling her that a mother has no choice but to love her children, and in that she was right. The love she feels for Robb is unlike anything she's ever experienced before. At times she thinks she wouldn't be able do this if she didn't have him, but she still worries. She's concerned she's doing everything wrong. How she wishes her mother was still alive, so she could help her with this.

There are plenty of other mothers in Winterfell, and they all assure her she's doing an excellent job. Some of them even confide in her that they feel the same way. And they all fawn over her little boy, cooing that he's such a beautiful lad. And he is, he truly is, with his unruly dark curls and bright blue eyes, chubby cheeks and pouty lips. She'd waste hours just watching him if she had the time, and when he frowns he looks so much like Jon it sends a sharp pang through her chest.

She's so busy during the day she doesn't have a lot of time anymore to think about him; without him she's had to become King and Queen, Lord and Lady of the keep and father and mother to Robb. At night she muffles her sobs into her pillow and whimpers: "Come back to me, Jon, please, come back."

***

He's weak when he wakes up, so weak. He hasn't eaten in days. He pushes himself to his feet and potters out to the well. There's still some water left in the pail, and he brings it to his mouth in a cupped hand. It tastes stale, but it laves his parched tongue and throat.

Ghost has returned with a couple of rabbits and he snatches one of them from between his fangs. He slices it open with the knife he keeps strapped to his hip and bites into the raw flesh. He knows he shouldn't, but he's so hungry, he can't help it. Soon he falls asleep again, slumped against the well, satisfied and his mouth still bloody. 

It's the furious churning of his stomach and the painful pressure in his belly that wake him up again. He only manages to shove his breeches down just in time, and then he's also retching his guts out.

His body is convulsing so badly he wants to weep, but he keeps puking and his bowels won't stop forcing whatever's still left inside out of him. It seems to last forever and when it finally stops, he collapses into a panting mess.  _This is it,_ he thinks. He's going to die, lying in a puddle of his own shit and vomit, and he can almost laugh at the irony of it all. 

He sees a flash of red from the corner of his eye. It was only the wind rustling the leaves of the weirwood. Somehow he finds the strength to move, dragging his body up to its trunk, to feel the bark and the sap under his palm and fingers.

Faces start flashing before his eyes. Robb, Arya, Fa- no, not Father, Bran, Rickon, Sam, the Old Bear, Pyp, Grenn, Edd, Ygritte, Mance, Olly, Tormund, Davos, Brienne, Daenerys, Gendry, nearly all of them dead, following each other in quick succession.

And every so often, he sees her. She's lovelier than she's ever been in his memories.  He even spies a glimpse of a tiny face with dark hair and blue eyes.

He sees all the places he's been, sees all the people he's met all over again. He sees her again, laughing as she twirls around in a meadow bathed in sunlight, wearing nothing but her shift. 

 _I'll never see her like that._ A sob rips through his chest, and everything goes black. 

He gasps and his eyes fly open in shock. He's never felt this frail before in his entire life, except for that one time when he came down with the pox as a child. His head hurts, his tongue feels as if it's made of leather, but he's better now. His body has fought so hard to pull him through. It would seem he's not ready to die after all. 

***

She's ordered an apple pie with dried cherries to be made for Robb's first nameday. It's a luxury, but one she feels she owes him. He's shy under all the attention being showered on him, but he eagerly buries his fingers into the pie before stuffing pieces of it into his mouth.

Maester Alderman comes to her in her solar after she's put her son to bed. "There was a raven from Castle Cerwyn, my lady," he tells her.

She rubs her temple. "What did Lord Cley want?"

"May I take a seat, please, my lady?"

She waves a hand to the chair opposite hers.

"Lord Cerwyn's letter pertains to an issue I've wished to discuss with you for a while now." The old man's brown eyes are kind, but his chin twitches nervously. "I'm sure more letters will follow soon, so it would be best if we began considering options at once, my lady."

She leans back in her chair. "What kind of options, maester?"

He clears his throat, averting his eyes only for a moment. "Marriage candidates, my lady."

Her hand clenches around the armrest of her chair. "No."

He sighs. "I understand your reluctance, my lady, but Winterfell needs strong allies, it needs an heir."

"Winterfell has an heir!" she states coolly.

"Your son doesn't have the Stark name," the maester points out kindly.

She purses her lips. "He's as true a Stark as there ever has been."

"My lady," he sighs, and she hates how soft and understanding his voice sounds. "The time has come to accept that Lord Snow is not coming back."

 _Never,_ she thinks,  but her stomach turns and she can't hold back the tears anymore. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to extend a formal apology to anyone who felt personally victimized by chapter one. I am truly sorry... Ugh, writing this kind of angst is some next level masochism, trust me. Also, I want you to suffer reading this, but then I feel bad about making you suffer. 
> 
> I actually considered turning this into a multichap and having Sansa marry someone else before Jon came home, but I'm weak and not THAT MEAN, so I thought: I'll just give them the reunion!
> 
> But then... this happened... Which was not what I intended to do with this story at all! I swear it's all Jon's fault! On top of that it took me ages to get the scenes out somewhat right... I swear I spent so much time just staring at a blank page trying to write ths fic over the last month...
> 
> I hope it's worth the wait!

Jon has started wandering again and one day, to his surprise, he finds himself facing a vast mass of dirty snow, stones and ice, stretching out as far as he can see left and right. He's moved south and he's come to the place where the Wall once stood. He sits down to eat a meagre meal and then decides to cross it.

Travelling south throught the Gift, he meets more people in a day than he's seen in moons. His voice sounds rough when he answers their greetings, forming words feels foreign on his tongue. It's after a fortnight, when he enters the New Gift, that he encounters a small village where people are bartering and selling things in the market place.

He's overwhelmed by the buzz of people chattering all around him, all the colours and smells which are no longer familiar. He winces at a booming laugh, jumps when a pair of quarreling men start shouting. People are throwing glances at him and it's making his breathing grow shallow.

He has some meat left over from Ghost's last hunt, some arrowheads and a dirk to trade for food and some other necessities. He's able to find everything he needs, not taking too much time to interact with the people he encounters, even if there's a faint tickle of curiosity in the back of his mind.

He's already on his way out when he hears whispers about a Queen kissed by fire. He shakes his head, dismissing it. He must have heard wrong.

"These kneelers, heh?" a large woman with bushy yellowish hair scoffs. "They want her to take a husband. All of them Southron lordlings are hurrying themselves to Winterfell, hoping she'll pick them."

***

Sansa dismounts, Alys Karstark swinging down from her own horse next to her. The guards guide the horses toward the Wintertown stables. People are already lining up for the food distribution. As they wait for the wagon to arrive, Sansa kneels down to stroke the dark curls of one of the children who are staring at her in awe. It must be the crown. She's had it fashioned to look exactly like the one the old Kings of Winter used to wear. 

She thought she needed to prove to her bannermen she is as capable and strong as any man. She has so many people to take care of and the political manoeuvering is an unwelcome burden, making all of it even more frustrating. But now it turns out it's not enough to keep their full support.

As she starts handing out apples, carrots and bread, she turns to Alys, who is smiling brightly at the children. "Are you enjoying married life, Lady Alys?"

She nods. "I am, Your Grace. It's nice, knowing you don't have to face this world alone. I know he looks something fierce, but Sigorn has been nothing but sweet and gentle with me."

Sansa smiles sadly. "Do you love him?"

Alys chuckles. "No, not yet. But I think I will." She hesitates for a moment. "I know it's still Winter, and it's probably not that smart, but I hope to be with child soon."

Sansa looks up. "Truly?"

Alys shrugs. "I didn't expect it either, but I don't have any family left. It's my duty to House Karstark and it's one I'd be happy to fulfill. I want a new family. I know I'll never be able to replace them, but still..."

Sansa nods.

"What about you, Your Grace? They say you'll be taking a new husband soon."

She arches an eyebrow. "They?"

Alys laughs.  "I believe Your Grace knows how rumours tend to spread around a castle, especially with so many people inside its walls."

Sansa sighs and looks around. There are more tents and fires outside again. She could probably house a couple of dozen more people in the guest house, the elderly, and mothers with young children. She wishes she could take them all in, but it's simply not possible.

***

She's there, close enough for him to touch if he only were to take a couple of steps to close the distance between them. Her face is sharper and paler than he remembers, but it's her. _Sansa._ His lips silently form her name, sampling the taste of it on his tongue. 

Something tries to rip its way through his chest. He didn't allow himself to hope, not really, but it's true. She's real, she must be, alive and well. He hasn't cried in years, but now tears threaten to spill from his eyes as he watches her in her furs and her crown, handing out food to her people.

After staring at her for a long while, he comes to his senses and hears her sweet voice. She's announcing she'll be taking two score people back to Winterfell so they don't have to sleep outside. He's grateful for the disguise he's chosen. It might be his only chance to get inside the castle walls without being seen.

***

She's come to the Godswood to be alone, but it would appear she doesn't have any luck today. A shapeless figure is kneeling in front of the Heart Tree. As she comes closer, she can see he's one of the people who came in with the latest arrivals from Wintertown, an old man dressed according to free folk customs. 

He's got a long dark beard, salted with white and she suspects he's blind, since he's always wearing a rag over the upper half of his face. His head whips up as the snow crunches loudly under her boots.

"Forgive me for disrupting your prayers, Ser," she says, the title rolling off her tongue out of the old habit of courtesy.

"Not at all m'lady," he answers. "And I am no Ser, the name's Ulfur."

She sucks in a sharp breath.  _His voice._ She jerks her chin up. Her mind is playing tricks on her again. "What brings you this far South, Ulfur?" she asks to distract herself.

He sighs. "I made a promise to a pretty lass once. She was almost as comely as yourself."

She smiles at the compliment, until she remembers — "How can you tell I'm pretty? You—" Her cheeks flush with heat. "I apologize, S- Ulfur." She can't see his mouth, but his beard and whiskers twitch.

"I can tell by your voice," he explains. "Besides, I've heard talk about the Queen who's kissed by fire."

She pulls her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Jon had called her that a couple of times. 

"Are you upset, m'lady?" Ulfur asks.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself, her mouth opening and closing again at his sharp perceptiveness.

"I hear you're about to be wed," he continues. "Doesn't that usually make a woman happy?"

She turns away from him, not answering.

He chuckles. "I ought to sod off. It's none of my business any"—

"I once swore a vow to myself I'd never marry again," she interrupts him, facing him again, no longer able to keep in all of her misgivings, unsure why she's about to share them with this stranger. "I had good reasons for that. But it seems I can't escape my duty any longer. A queen needs to serve her people, and it seems my people would demand I wed one of my bannermen."

"Bugger them," he says. "I know what you've done for them, what you're still doing. Isn't that enough?"

She exhales sharply through her nose. "It should be," she admits. "Perhaps"— her voice cracks. "Perhaps I could do it, if it wasn't for my son Robb. I fear for..." What will any possible husband do to a child that is not his own, and even worse, another man's bastard?

Ulfur rises to his feet, reaching out as if to comfort her, but seems to think better of it. "Your son is the only thing holding you back?" he asks, his voice oddly strained.

She shrugs. "No. It's also.... His father"—  _Oh Jon —_ "I'm such a silly girl, still hoping he'll come back to me."

"He will."

"You can't know that," she objects, furiously shaking her head so the tears won't fall and she starts running away from him.

***

He's decided to make himself scarce for now by retreating to the crypts. No one ever comes there, except for Sansa. She lights the candles for Father and her mother and Robb and Rickon, and even for his mother, her Aunt Lyanna.

One time she picked up the feather which must have been whirled away by the wind to put it back in her stone hand. "Are you watching over him?" she whispered hoarsely. "You and Arya?"

He wanted to come out of his hiding place right then, go to her and reveal himself, but something was holding him back. 

At the moment he's crouching down behind a tomb, hiding, because there's more than one set of footsteps approaching.

"She's stalling," a male voice says.

"Of course she is," comes the answer, an older woman, he believes. "She's learnt too many tricks during her time in the South, with Lord Littlefinger and gods know who else. I don't trust that maester."

"They say he's the one who convinced her," the man counters.

"Possibly," the woman admits. "But for what purpose?" There's a pause. "It's the bastard holding her back, is what it is."

"Lord Snow?" the man asks.

"No, his son," she scoffs.

"We don't know that."

"It is quite obvious, and even if it wasn't, the babe has his look," she points out. "She knows that marriage will move her son down in the line of succession. And that's what she wants to avoid."

"So the babe is a problem," he sighs.

Jon can't believe his own ears. His stomach feels like ice sinking into his belly. He must be misunderstanding their meaning. No one would be that vile. He shakes his head, trying to focus on the conversation again. 

"Glover and Manderly are too old, Umber's too young, Hornwood is to wed one of the Manderly girls," the woman is saying. "I don't see her marrying a Flint or a Norrey. Cerwyn is young and charming, but Roose can offer her more with our support."

"You've truly got your mind set on this match."

"I had to bury my dream of becoming Lady Stark a long time ago," she answers. "But at least I shall have this."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

A feast is being held for Sansa's suitors.  He wishes he could spare her this ordeal, but there is no way he could let her keep up appearances if he revealed himself now. He needs to find out what these people who are plotting against her, who are trying to harm their child, are up to.

He's smuggled Ghost into the castle, hiding him in the Godswood during the day and having him guard the family quarters at night. He's been restless all day, Jon's had to warg into him several times to keep him calm. If he wasn't as quiet as his namesake, Jon wouldn't have been able to stop him from howling for all of Winterfell to hear.

Fortunately it's still getting dark quite early in the day, so Ghost is roaming free right now. Jon is hiding in a dark corner of Winterfell's Great Hall, watching the evening unfold. The meal is hardly worthy of the word feast, but that's to be expected. 

Bran is seated next to Sansa on the dais, scanning the room and Jon thinks the corner of his mouth quirks up when their eyes meet. A moment later he tells himself he must have imagined it.

The meagre food is made up for by an abundance of ale, and by the time the dancing begins, the signs of it have Jon clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. He's found himself a flagon to nurse to keep calm as he watches Sansa's almost imperceptible discomfort under her bannermen's unseemly advances.

He can feel his hackles rising and his lips curl back to release a growl that's building inside his chest. He blinks, shaking his head. Ghost must be sensing his anger.

Sansa is dancing with Roose Ryswell, and the sight of his hands on her makes Jon's vision go red. He takes a swig of his ale, sword hand clenching and unclenching, itching to reach for his hidden sword. 

Gasps and screams rise up and all heads are turned to the door.  _Ghost, no!_ he thinks, but it's too late, all eyes are on the enormous white direwolf that has appeared at the far end of the hall.

His wolf is not alone, clinging to his neck, tiny hands carded into his fur is...  _Robb! My son!_ Jon moves instinctively. The boy has his curls and the Stark face, there is no mistaking. 

A pair of guards drag a maidservant with a ruddy face into the hall. She cries out as one of them shoves her roughly to the ground. 

A path is cleared as Sansa hurries toward Ghost, lips parted and eyes wide in shock. Jon sees her mouthing his name. She lifts Robb off the wolf's back and holds him to her as she turns to the guards.

"What's the meaning of this?" she asks them.

They bow quickly, the shorter one rather clumsily, but he's the one who answers. "Your Grace, this woman was trying to take your boy through the gates to get him out of the castle."

"It was the wolf who alerted us, Your Grace," the other one adds.

She reaches out to pet the side of Ghost's head, whispering to him, and Robb tries to mimic her, cooing: "Ooboy, Whost!"

"What do you have to say for yourself?" she demands icily, looking down at the woman at her feet.

She doesn't answer.

"There is no need to be afraid of the people who made you do this. I can protect you," Sansa tries more kindly.

Still the woman doesn't answer.

Jon steps out of the shadows. "I can tell you who put her up to this," he announces.

All heads turn to him, and while many faces are curious, there's skepticism or even disgust on more of them.

"Ulfur? Speak," Sansa commands him.

He doesn't falter. "Lady Dustin and her brothers conspired to get rid of o- your son."

"You filthy Wildling bastard!" Roose roars, charging at him.

Jon is quicker, drawing Longclaw and before the other man can reach him, the blade's tip is already at his throat.

The hood of his furs has fallen back, and Sansa is staring at him, a hand clasped over her mouth.

"Take back your lies, you buggering savage!" Roose tries to take advantage of his momentary distraction, but Longclaw's sharp edge nicks the palm of his hand, even through his glove, and he thinks better of it.

"My lords," Bran says, closer than Jon would have expected. A servant has wheeled his chair closer to them. "Everything my cousin says is true. Barbrey Dustin and Rickard Ryswell believed my sister would be more willing to marry their brother with her son out of the way."

He has to raise his voice starting from the word 'cousin', murmurs threatening to drown out his words. "My lords, don't you recognize the man you once called your King?"

Shouts of disbelief and questions start filling the hall and Jon calls out: "Ghost, to me!"

Gasps of surprise rise up as the wolf obeys him, but he only has eyes for one person. She puts Robb down in Bran's lap and takes a cautious step toward him.

"Jon, is that really you?" she whispers, hope and hesitation in her eyes.

"I promised, remember?" he answers in a rough voice.

Her voice trembles when she commands the guards to take the Ryswells to the cells.

***

They leave the Great Hall together, and in the privacy of an alcove, she turns to stare at the man who called himself Ulfur. Under the scars and the beard and the rags, she finally recognizes her Jon. She points at him with a slight wave of her hand. "Why...?"

"You were about to choose a husband," he points out, not meeting her eyes. "That's the first thing I heard about you in more than a year."

"I-I'm sorry." Her voice, hoarse with unshed tears and emotion, breaks. 

" _I'm_ sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he whispers roughly. "They told me you were dead," he continues, swallowing heavily.

She stores that information and all the implications it holds away for future examination. "But why didn't you come home to Winterfell?" she asks, unsure what else to say.

He gives her a puzzled look. "It wouldn't be home without you."

***

She takes him up to the lord's chambers, where she's had two bath tubs prepared for him. She dumps his filthy rags into a corner and helps him into the first tub.

She hands him a piece of soap and a washing cloth and she sets to washing the chalk out of his hair and beard. When the water in the tub has turned muddy and dark, she takes his hand to help him move to the second tub.

They don't speak yet, though she knows there is so much to talk about. Now is not the time. She unlaces her dress, pins her hair up, and joins him, taking a vial of rose oil and a brush with her. 

She sits behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest and she almost hisses when she notices how slight he's become in her embrace. His arms are thin and she can count his ribs under his skin, but he's real and she's touching him, and it's almost more than she can take.

She holds him tight, her breasts almost painfully squashed between their bodies and nuzzles his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his skin. He sighs and shudders, a tremor coursing through his body as if he's about to break out in sobs, but she rests her cheek against his shoulder, and slowly, his ragged breathing calms down. 

She wonders if it's anything like what she's feeling, a lump in her throat which makes it hard to breathe to the point where it's painful and she almost wants to scream that she can't breathe. Somewhere deep underneath the disbelief and the impression that it's all a dream and the haziness shielding her from feeling too much, there's joy, pure joy, she knows there is, but she simply can't let it out, not yet. 

She picks up her vial of oil, pouring some of it onto her palm, rubbing it onto her hands to knead it into his hair. His curls have grown past his shoulders and parts of it have tangled into matted snarls. She's not sure if she'll get them all out. Perhaps she'll be able to untangle them with one of her embroidery needles, but that will have to wait until tomorrow.

She works patiently and gently, brushing as many knots out of his hair as she can, and he lets her, bracing his arms on her thighs. It's soothing for the both of them, she can feel his body relax against hers. She doesn't know how long they sit there, but when she's done, the water has cooled.

When they've both dried off, she leads him to the bed. They lie down, pulling the furs up and over themselves, and she cradles his naked body in her arms. 

"I can't remember the last time I slept in a bed," he croaks out, hot breath fanning out over her collarbone. She can feel an aching need starting to coil deep inside her belly, but she ignores it. Just holding him, feeling his skin on hers is enough for now.

"It must have been the night before you left," she murmurs. She still remembered it, how desperate their lovemaking had been, how long they'd put off going to sleep in fear of the next morning.

His hand tightens on her hip. "Aye, that must have been it, though I didn't get much sleep that night."

"Then sleep now," she tells him. "I won't bother you tonight."

He hums, and the ghost of a chuckle tries to escape from his lips.

*** 

It must be pure exhaustion which makes him sleep through the night. Even with Sansa's warm body pressed to his, he feels uncomfortable in this bed, as if he doesn't belong here anymore.

He wakes up drowning in confusion, everything around him too soft, the entire room too hot and stuffy. He kicks off the furs and close to him something shifts.

His eyes flit toward the movement and he sees Sansa. She's real and she's close enough for him to touch. He lifts a hand, but he can't bring himself to do it. Instead he stares at the way she scrunches her nose, at her fluttering eyelashes, the goosebumps rising on her arms.

He can tell by her shoulders and her collarbones and the sharper lines of her face that she's skinnier than when he left. There are silver lines on her breasts and belly, signs that she's carried his child. A noisy breath escapes from his lips and her eyes fly open.

She blinks in sleepy confusion and smiles at him. He tries to return it, but he almost has to turn away from her. The tender and easy eagerness with which she's willing to welcome him back is too much for him to take.

He's not the man who left so many moons ago and he knows she's changed as well. 

She rolls onto her side, leaning over him to brush a curl from his forehead, sliding her hand down his face to comb her fingers through his long beard. There's wonder and curiosity in her eyes, perhaps because of his new scars.

She lowers her hand, trailing her fingers over his gaunt chest and his thin arms and he averts his eyes. He reaches for one of the furs, wrapping it around himself as he sits up.

"I want to see Robb," he tells her.

***

The first real meeting between father and son doesn't go well. Robb is going through a shy phase and Jon is too eager. She has to bite her tongue to stop herself from telling him it's nothing, that Robb just doesn't like strangers. Instead, she convinces him it's the long beard. She doesn't mind helping him get rid of that.

Barbrey Dustin and Rickard Ryswell are sentenced for their crimes. With Bran's help it's confirmed that Roose was not complicit in their abduction scheme. Now that Jon has returned, he seems the obvious one to pass the sentence, but Sansa and Bran decide they can't put him through that, not yet.

She remembers the small sword Gendry made for her at Arya's request. Her sister called it a makhaira, after the sword Princess Nymeria had wielded. It's light and short, but it serves well enough to cut the rope holding up the nooses.

After the execution Jon finds her in her solar, heaving over the sobs she's trying to hold in, hand braced on a chair. He holds her as she cries into his shoulder, and in some twisted way it's the closest she's felt to him in the fortnight since he revealed himself. 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why it took me so long to finish this... But here it is! Yaay, I finished a WIP! :)

Life goes on within the walls of Winterfell, and Jon starts to take over some of Sansa's duties. Their days are quite similar to those right after he was crowned King in the North. They still share the responsibility of ruling the North, though they're less focused on the military side and Sansa is taking on the bulk of the tasks now, as she's been doing since he left for Dragonstone three years ago.

She's still tired, but she knows Jon needs time to recover. It also leaves him with more free time he can spend with Robb, who's quickly growing used to having him around. Watching them together makes her heart either melt or almost burst out of her chest. She often finds herself staring, the needle or quill in her hands stilling, or walking into a room only to lean against the doorframe with a sigh.

They're rebuilding Winterfell together and she's enjoying every moment of it. They still fight when they have disagreements, but that's always been part of who they are. Slowly, they're also feeding each other bits of their stories, opening up about what's happened to them in their years of separation. 

Every night they share a cup of ale or mead as they talk in front of the fire. They tell each other about their day or about some new adventure of Robb's. They share gossip and other news about the inhabitants of the castle, and sometimes they just sit together in silence, enjoying each other's company.

Every night they sleep side by side. Jon will hold her in his arms, stroke her back or arms and kiss her cheek or temple, but Sansa needs more. She's not sure how to bring it up, afraid he might reject her.

It makes her wring her hands, bite her lip and rub her thighs together. How hard can it be to seduce her former lover? They've made a child together. She's done it before.

But this time it will take more than standing naked in front of him and saying a couple of words to sway him.

They've survived a war, they're no longer desperate. They have their lives ahead of them and a son to look after. They have a kingdom to rule and people to care for.

Sooner or later Daenerys will learn of his return and they can't predict her reaction. They tried to keep their affair a secret from the Dragon Queen,  but surely she must have at least an inkling who fathered Sansa's son.

She could deal with all of her worries, if she didn't feel this chasm between her and Jon; if this cold distance didn't make her doubt everything. 

She's already in bed tonight, waiting for him. The fire in the hearth is roaring, filling the room with a pleasant warmth, but Sansa is burning up.

She's tempted to slip a hand between her thighs, half-ashamed at the wicked, improper thought, but she doesn't wish to scare him off.

Instead she closes her eyes and imagines he's there with her. The thought of his rough warm hands caressing her naked skin makes her squeeze her thighs together and the memory of his soft lips on her tits raises her hips off the mattress.

He enters their bedroom and peers at her from his position at the door. "It's still early, I went to your solar," he explains. "Are you tired?"

She shrugs, aware how flushed her cheeks must appear. "Come to bed," she begs him. " I can't sleep without you here."

He chuckles but complies, approaching the bed as he strips down to his smallclothes. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and brushes her hair from her face, tucking a strand behind her ear.

She pulls him down for a kiss and he lies down next to her, his hand immobile on her hip. It scorches her skin through the flimsy fabric of her nightrail, but she wishes he would squeeze or stroke, something, anything. But he stays perfectly still as she cups his cheek and licks the seam of his lips.

She can feel him smiling against her lips, and she knows he's about to pull back.

"No," she objects, twining her fingers into his curls to catch his attention. She needs more than tender caresses and tepid kisses. She needs everything he promised her in wordless vows on that very first night. She catches his gaze and gives him a determined glare. "I want all of you."

The corner of his mouth quirks into a smile, but his eyes darken. "You want me?"

"Yes," she whispers.

He groans and pulls her on top of him, divesting her of her nightrail. "I want you so much," he confesses.

He clutches her thighs, tugging her up his body until she's straddling his face. He grabs her hips and pulls her down. She can feel his hot breath hitting her lower lips and then his tongue is stroking her folds.

She grabs the headboard for support, throwing her head back to surrender to the feeling. She still remembers the first time he did this to her, how odd and embarassing she found it, until his mouth latched on to her pearl and the pleasure overwhelmed her.

Then there had been the second time, out in the Godwood, where he burrowed under her many layers of skirts and ripped away her smallclothes, and she had to lean back against a tree to keep her knees from buckling.

He flicks his tongue against her bundle of nerves and her nails dig into to the wood she's clasping.

"Come one, sweet girl, ride my face," he murmurs, his voice vibrating through her core, encouraging her to do just that as a moan escapes from her lips.

She's already close, and with his lips sucking on her pearl, his hands kneading her arse and his new beard tickling the insides of her thighs, it doesn’t take long for her peak to take her.

She ruts against his mouth as she cries out her release and slumps against the headboard, her hand reaching down to caress his face. 

***

Jon helps her down and pulls her into his arms. He tucks her head under his chin and strokes her hair. He's hard and aching, but it doesn’t matter. 

Sansa pushes herself up and kisses him, his mouth still wet from her release. She rubs their noses together and smiles down at him, the lazy smile of a satisfied cat.

"Happy now?" he asks her.

"No," she answers.  "I told you I wanted all of you."

She slips a hand down and palms him through his smallclothes,  and he bucks up into her hand. Her nimble fingers untie his lacings and then they're wrapped around his cock, making him groan.

"You don't have to," he starts to object, but she puts a finger against his lips. 

"I want you inside me," she whispers into his ear and that's all it takes for him to flip her over and shove down his smallclothes as he rolls on top of her.

His mouth latches onto a nipple and her back arches off the bed, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. 

She opens her legs for him and he fists his cock to guide himself inside her. He tries to go slow, but she's wet and he's eager, and it only takes one swift thrust until he's fully sheathed. 

She wraps her legs around his waist and he glides in even deeper. He starts moving and he already needs to squeeze his eyes shut,  holding his breath to keep himself under control.

One arm slips under her back to pull her even closer and he takes her hand to lace their fingers together,  nuzzling her cheek.

It's been too long and she's so unbelievably hot and tight. He kisses her jaw and grunts: "You feel so good, Sansa. I won't last long."

"I don't care," her answer fans against his ear in a hot breath. "I just want you to love me."

He surrenders to the squeeze and pull of her cunt and lets his body take over. She's all around him, but still he wants to get closer. He buries his face in her neck and breathes her in, his ragged panting falling into rhythm with his thrusts.

Her teeth catch his earlobe and she flicks her tongue against it, sucking before drawing in a deep breath and whimpering: "Put another babe in me, Jon!"

Her plea sends him over the edge. Waves of pleasure overwhelm him and his hips snap and stutter as he finds his release.

He rolls to his back and pulls her with him, and for a while he holds her in silence. Then he feels her lips on his neck and her breath tickles his skin. Her voice is so small when she says: "I thought you didn't want me anymore."

He pulls away so their eyes can meet. "That's impossible." He shakes his head. "But I didn't think you'd still want me. I'm only a shadow of the man I used to be."

She smiles and strokes his beard. "No, you're not. You're still Jon, my Jon," she whispers,  carding her fingers through his hair to pull him closer for a kiss.

***

It's still Winter when they are wed beneath the Heart Tree. It's a small ceremony, and the feast will be modest, but he's home with her, finally fulfilling his promise, and that's all that matters. 

Bran is close, sitting in his wheelchair, and Edd is standing only three feet away. There are other people here, witnesses and attendants, but he doesn't see them, he only has eyes for her.

Robb is leading her to the Heart Tree on wobbly feet, his forehead creased in concentration. She looks radiant in her simple dress, her hair loosely flowing down her shoulders. 

They exchange the words and Bran asks: "Who claims her?"

He only sees her beaming, flushed face. "I, Jon Snow," he says.

"Do you take this man?"

"I take this man," she answers with a smile, closing the distance between them to put Robb in Bran's lap so they can kneel in front of the Heart Tree. He doesn't know if he still has it in him to pray anymore, whether it's safe to wish for more than he already has right now, so instead he thanks whichever god may be listening that he's returned to her.

When he takes her hand to help her stand up again, she puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. She smiles down at him and says: "Rise, Jon Stark."

He does, lifting her off the ground as he wraps his arms around her to kiss her. Cloaks are exchanged and Robb climbs off Bran's lap to join them. He leaps into Jon's arms and exclaims: "Dada!"

He kisses his son's cheek and Sansa reaches for his free hand, gently covering it with her own as she places it on her belly.

The sun reaches down to kiss the weirwood leaves and her hair alike, and for the first time in forever, Jon allows himself to dream of spring.

 

__


End file.
